


see what disasters we live

by growlery



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 03, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Families of Choice, Lincoln-centric, M/M, Mythology References, the delinquents form their own settlement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-17 05:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8132176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery
Summary: Bellamy's eyes light up in a way Lincoln has never seen from them before. “Helios,” he repeats. “Greek god of the sun.”There are many, many things Lincoln wants to say right now, but his throat is closing up like he's been captured by the enemy. Except now he lives with the enemy of his own free, active will, and they aren't the enemy any more.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zauberer_sirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/gifts).



> some notes: this is completely AU for series three, though i have nicked a couple of details i liked. it's also inspired by [Aventine](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Aventine), so it's set in a universe where sometime after the events of series two, the delinquents make their own settlement. this picks up when they're already settled there. 
> 
> some other notes: there's some discussion of the shit canon's put lincoln through like torture and forced addiction, octavia and lincoln were never romantic for #reasons, and there's some background bellamy&raven and monty/miller, because this is me. in the spirit of the exchange, octavia has been racebent - i imagine her as nicole gale anderson, but you're welcome to imagine whoever you want. 
> 
> becketted, i'm so sorry this is so late! i really hope it doesn't disappoint. thanks to the mods for granting an extension, and thanks to yasmin for talking this over with me.

Lincoln can't sleep.

It's one of those nights where he's stretched too thin, where even on the edge of physical collapse, his mind is too busy, too loud. He endures painful memory after painful memory playing on repeat, lying on his cot in the hut he shares with Miller, his eyes drawn shut, wishing for the night to take him. But his body is practised at this betrayal. It keeps him just on the edge of exhaustion, whispers instead of other things he could do to let the darkness take him.

Lincoln sits up, exhaling. Nyko once told him that such thoughts aren't one's own, but Lincoln is all too familiar with the monster inside of him. The thoughts don't feel like a stranger’s.

It's quiet outside. Everyone in the village at least attempts to keep regular hours, and those who don't keep the noise to themselves, mostly. There's a light on in Raven's workshop, and Lincoln thinks about joining her, offering a set of hands for whatever she's working on, but keeping his body busy only gives his mind more time to wander.

He turns, instead, towards the stables.

Not long after this settlement was established, they traded with Trikru: three horses for twelve sacks of grain. It was Lincoln’s suggestion, but he was surprised when Bellamy agreed, then abruptly guilty for his surprise. It went to community vote, and Monty was a bit reluctant to part with that much of their crop yield, but the vote was overwhelmingly in favour of the trade. Lincoln was glad of it. It would set the scene for a regular trading agreement, which would go a long way towards establishing unity and peace, he reasoned.

Selfishly, he missed his horse.

The stables are not empty when Lincoln pushes open the door. There's a dark head at Octavia’s horse’s pen, murmuring softly as he brushes out her hair. At the deliberate sound of Lincoln’s footsteps, Bellamy's head turns, startled.

“Good morning,” Lincoln says, and Bellamy's mouth does something between a smile and a grimace as he returns the greeting.

Lincoln thinks that'll be the end of it, that they'll politely ignore each other until one or both of them slips back to bed, but then, “Octavia says you're teaching her how to ride,” Bellamy says, while Lincoln’s tending to Helios.

Lincoln doesn't look up. “I'm teaching lots of people how to ride,” he says mildly.

Bellamy clears his throat. “Still,” he says, a bit gruff. “She loves it. I- thank you.”

Lincoln turns to meet his eyes, show he understands Bellamy's gratitude even if he doesn't see how it's necessary. “I thought she might,” he says. “I saw how she was with Helios.”

Bellamy's eyes light up in a way Lincoln has never seen from them before. “Helios,” he repeats. “Greek god of the sun.”

There are many, many things Lincoln wants to say right now, but his throat is closing up like he's been captured by the enemy. Except now he lives with the enemy of his own free, active will, and they aren't the enemy any more.

“Yes,” Lincoln says.

“So the Cerberos thing,” Bellamy starts, and then seems to wince, either with guilt or with the pain of the memories he's brought up for himself. Lincoln still hasn't made it right with Bellamy for what happened in Mount Weather. Lincoln doesn't know how to make that sort of thing right, but Lincoln also knows that Bellamy is dealing with his own demons, and so he's not tried to broach the subject.

“It wasn't lost on me,” Lincoln says quickly. “I've heard the old stories, too.”

Bellamy glances over at him, something soft on his face that Lincoln wants to touch, smooth out. Lincoln looks at Helios and his uncomplicated face, and silently thanks his old friend.

“Tell me,” Bellamy says. Lincoln looks back, frowning, and Bellamy shrugs. “My mom told us the stories she knew. I want to know what stories you know.”

“Octavia loved them,” Lincoln remembers Bellamy saying, and privately remembers thinking that Octavia didn't name herself after the sister of an ancient emperor.

Bellamy nods, pleased. His face looks softer than Lincoln has seen it in some time, and perhaps that is why Lincoln doesn't brush him off. Perhaps it's just the late hour filing off Lincoln's own edges. Whatever it is, Lincoln takes a few seconds to think, then says, looking back at his horse, "Helios and Phaethon."

"Phaethon?"

Lincoln can't help the smile that spreads on his face, just this side of triumphant. "Helios's son," he explains. "He stole Helios's chariot."

"The chariot of the sun," Bellamy says quickly, and Lincoln doesn't bother hiding his amusement.

"Yes," he says.

“I think I have heard this one,” Bellamy says. “I thought Helios gave the chariot freely, though.”

Lincoln shrugs. “Maybe in the version you heard,” he says. “But I thought you wanted to hear one of my stories.”

Bellamy smiles. It's not a sharp smile, a combative smile, like Lincoln might expect. It's warm like the flame of the lantern he's set down, bright like the stars in the sky outside, companionable like the space there isn't between them.

“Sorry,” Bellamy says. “Go on.”

Lincoln isn’t a natural storyteller, but you don’t live with Nate Miller for as long as he has and not pick up a few things. “Phaethon,” he begins, “means The Shining One, and Phaethon is beautiful and brilliant and bright. But no one shines as brightly as Helios, who carries the entire sun across the sky every day. Phaethon looks at his father, and Phaethon wants, but Helios won’t let him take the chariot. You don’t understand, he says. You could get hurt, he says. You could hurt, he says. But Phaethon is the Shining One; if anyone can bring out the sun and emerge unscathed, it should be him.

“So one night,” Lincoln says, “he steals the chariot. At first it is marvellous, feeling the burning sun at his back, watching the stars light up the dark. But it isn’t enough to shine bright. Phaethon doesn’t understand, and Phaethon does get hurt, and Phaethon does hurt. The chariot spins out of his control and burns up whole parts of the earth and the sky, leaving death and devestation in its wake. Zeus is furious. He wants to strike the chariot down with Phaethon in it and end this horrible mess, but Helios, torn between his duty and his son, begs for them to at least try to reclaim the chariot.”

“But it’s too late,” Bellamy says quietly. “Fucking Greeks. It’s always too late.”

Lincoln nods. “The chariot falls out of the sky and plummets into the sea. Phaethon’s body is never found. Zeus strips Helios of his responsibility and gives it instead to his son Apollo.”

“What a story,” Bellamy says. He’s quiet for a moment, then he continues, his voice steady, “And you think I am Phaethon?”

Lincoln shakes his head. “Actually,” he says, “I think you're more like Helios.”

Bellamy blinks. He looks, suddenly, barely older than his sister, and Lincoln wants to rub the rawness from his face. Instead, Lincoln looks away, looks down, listens to Bellamy's breathing even out, and when he looks back up, Bellamy’s face is his own again.

“I can live with that,” Bellamy says, “I guess,” and Lincoln smiles, and Bellamy smiles back.

Lincoln turns back to Helios with an affectionate click of his teeth, and Bellamy resumes his attendance of Octavia’s horse. He’s good at it, patient and careful but still firm, his ministrations inexpert but efficient.

“Have you ridden before?” Lincoln asks, curious, and Bellamy looks surprised.

“No,” he says. “I mean, Octavia’s taken me out on her horse a few times, but I’m not sure that counts.”

Lincoln smiles. “Octavia’s a good rider,” he says. “Did you enjoy the experience?”

Bellamy makes a face. “Might have enjoyed it more with an actual saddle.”

Lincoln shrugs. “We've no shortage of wood,” he says, “but leather is a bit harder to come by. It's fine. We make do.”

Bellamy nods. “I'd like to learn to ride,” he says, sounding hesitant. “I don't really have time for proper lessons, but it would be nice. At some point.”

“At some point,” Lincoln says, nodding. “Probably not this point.”

Bellamy laughs softly. Outside, the sky is lightening; the sun will have risen soon. “Yeah,” he says. “I should be heading back. Good night, Lincoln.”

“Good night,” Lincoln says, and Bellamy nods at him as he leaves the stables.

*

“So,” Monty says, seemingly unbothered by the fact that Lincoln has him in a headlock, “I'm having some trouble with the berry patch. No matter what I do, nothing wants to grow. Do you think you could take a look?”

This isn't strictly one of Lincoln's many jobs, acting as resident adviser on all things related to the ground, but it happens more often than it doesn't, other villagers seeking his presumed expertise on their current problem. Sometimes it is tiring, being positioned as an expert on matters he knows truthfully very little about, but mostly he tries to appreciate the sense of inclusion in village affairs, the sense of feeling needed, of being indispensable.

Anyway, Anya had an affinity for all growing things, and used to take Lincoln berry picking when he was a child; he picked up a few things.

“Of course,” Lincoln says, without releasing him. Monty beams back, and something loosens in Lincoln's chest.

As Lincoln is demonstrating how to effectively remove oneself from such a hold and do significant damage to one's assailant in the process, he notices his students’ attention wandering. Exasperated, he continues on with the lesson, but he soon spots the source of the distraction.

“Don't mind me,” Bellamy calls, from just outside the arena. “Just watching.”

Checking up on me, Lincoln thinks, then feels abruptly guilty. He smiles at Bellamy, unforced.

“They're progressing well, aren't they?” he says, and Bellamy shrugs.

“Still very sloppy,” he says, the mockery clear in his eyes.

“Like you're any better,” Miller scoffs. “Put him on his ass, Lincoln.”

Lincoln’s mouth twitches, but he says nothing.

“He's welcome to try,” Bellamy says, turning his gaze on Lincoln. He's too far away for Lincoln to parse the expression on Bellamy's face, but there's warmth in it, and something heavier.

The chant goes up, fight, fight, fight, an old battle cry, which quickly morphs into a cheer when Bellamy neatly vaults into the training area. It's showy, but effective; Bellamy knows how to work a crowd.

Monty gives a mock-salute to them both, then heads back to join the crowd. As Lincoln faces Bellamy down, he hears Monty call out, “Taking bets, any and all bets,” and out of the corner of his eye sees Miller start collecting currency.

Bellamy rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. “They set us up,” he says, and Lincoln nods his agreement.

“No shame in ending it before it's begun,” he says mildly. “We'll call it in my favour, obviously.”

Bellamy snorts. “Not likely.”

“Actually, it looks like the odds are against you,” Monty calls out, and Bellamy swears.

“No fucking respect,” he says, but he's grinning, clearly can't help himself.

They take their positions opposite each other. A look passes between them, a kind of this is just for show look, a kind of we're obviously not going to hurt each other look, a kind of you're kidding yourself if you think I'm going easy on you look. That part comes mostly from Bellamy, and it makes Lincoln feel a strange kind of amusement, but it's not like it's all Bellamy, after all.

The circling continues while they both wait for the other to strike first, aware of where the upper hand lies. The crowd is hungry, and Bellamy weakens under their desire first; he throws a punch that Lincoln sees coming seconds beforehand and blocks easily, grabbing Bellamy's hand to use the force of his attack against him, sending him staggering. He recovers in an instant, spins round to block Lincoln's own attack.

It moves quickly after that. Bellamy's strikes are fast, efficient. Bellamy draws no pleasure from fighting, Lincoln knows; he fights to end it, as quickly and cleanly as possible. Lincoln has always appreciated that about him.

It's all fists and feet for a blurry minute and then their bodies are suddenly close, their faces inches apart. Lincoln can see the scars on Bellamy's face, ones that were cut too deep to fully heal, almost outnumbering the freckles that also cover his face. It's just a moment, one breath when Lincoln is caught in the space, between them, but it's enough for Bellamy to aim a kick at his ribs and drop Lincoln to the ground in one swift move.

Bellamy leans over him, red-faced and panting. “Looks like I win,” he says, and Lincoln swallows his heart and nods.

Bellamy puts out his arm and Lincoln grips Bellamy's wrist, pulls himself up. He loses his balance, topples forward into Bellamy's chest, and for a moment their faces are inches apart again. Then Bellamy's dropping his hand, spinning away from him, taking a bow in front of the booing audience. In a blink, he's gone.

“That was enough of a demonstration for today,” Lincoln announces. “Sort your bets before we next meet, please; I don't want you killing each other.”

While everyone's preoccupied arguing with Monty and Miller, Lincoln makes his own escape.

*

Raven is already at the stables when Lincoln arrives for their lesson, clicking her teeth at Helios and feeding him sugar cubes out of her hand.

"You're his favourite, you know," Lincoln tells her, coming up to pat Helios's belly.

Raven turns to grin at him, lazy. "I'm everyone's favourite," she says, "but I don't think he loves anything like he loves you."

Lincoln rubs over Helios's back, leaning into his side, and Helios moves his head towards Lincoln. Lincoln smiles, can't help it.

It doesn't escape his notice that Raven is leaning heavily on her right leg, wincing every time her weight comes to rest on the left. He casts about for a delicate way to phrase his concern, but if there is one thing he knows about Raven Reyes, it's that she doesn't appreciate delicate.

"Your leg?" he asks, and she grimaces.

"It's been better," she says. "It's been worse too, though. Octavia prescribed me more pain medication, and it's helping; I just need to let my leg ride it out."

Lincoln nods, and when Raven moves to get up onto the horse, he holds out an arm, firm but not insistent. Raven pauses a second, and then grips his wrist to help haul herself up.

“Thanks,” she says. He drops his arm, watches her pull her leg over to Helios's other side, hands her the reins when she's settled. “What about you, how are you doing?”

“Pull harder when you need him to move,” Lincoln says, and then, "I’m fine, thank you."

“Bellamy said he saw you in the stables the other night,” Raven says, then amends, “Morning, I guess it was. Still having trouble sleeping?”

Lincoln shrugs. “Sometimes. It's not as bad as it used to be.”

“So it's still not great,” she says, and Lincoln has to nod. “You don't have to resort to Bellamy if you want company, you know. Workshop's always open. Feel free to come join the insomniac club any time you like.”

Lincoln smiles. "I'll keep it in mind," he says.

*

Lincoln takes a look at the burgeoning berry patch, and a week later there are rows and rows of green stalks poking out of the soil. Monty repays Lincoln with a tight hug and a mouthful of moonshine, which quickly turns into several mouthfuls around the campfire as the sun burns its last in the sky.

It's not long before they're joined by others. Miller's the first, waving at the both of them before curling up into Monty's side, swiping at his drink. Monty scowls at him, fails to make it work around the grin on his face, and Lincoln looks away, something in his chest aching. He's about to excuse himself, make a quiet retreat to somewhere he'll be less in the way, when Miller asks, “What's the occasion?”

Monty clinks his drink against Lincoln's. “Lincoln got the berry patch sorted. We're going to have fruit, Nate. Weird mutated possibly radioactive and might kill us fruit, but fruit.”

Miller's laugh is unmistakably fond, but this time Lincoln's chest does not ache. "To possibly radioactive fruit," Miller says, stealing Monty's drink again.

"What's going on?" Harper asks, leading Monroe with her by the hand. "Why are we toasting radioactive fruit?"

"We're not toasting anything," Monty grouses, "this was supposed to be a private celebration," but he gets up to fetch more moonshine for them all while Miller explains about the berry patch. Miller makes it sound far grander than it was, spins the tale so Monty is a distressed damsel and Lincoln is his gallant saviour, and by the end of it, Harper and Monroe are leaning into Lincoln, laughing delightedly along with Miller's words, and Lincoln doesn't remember what it feels like to be cold.

That part's definitely the moonshine, though.

Miller affects a sitting bow, waving his arms dramatically, and from behind them all, Monty says, "If you're going to make up a story, you should at least make up a good story." Miller looks up at the sound of his voice, but Lincoln knows Miller's smile isn't for the cups and bottles that Monty is holding. Miller holds out a hand, and Monty lets himself be pulled down into Miller's lap, settling easily against Miller's back.

“Well,” Miller says, and starts spinning a story about radioactive fruit trying to take over the world.

“Original,” Monroe says dryly, but Miller barrels cheerfully on, undeterred.

“We're all part of the resistance, naturally,” he says, “led by our fearless leader, Bellamy Blake. Bellamy, get over here!”

Lincoln turns his head. It's already more of an effort than it should be, like moving through thick mud. Bellamy approaches, and for a moment he is lit up by the campfire, his eyes bright and shadowed, his face smooth and scarred. Then he moves, and the night swallows him back up.

“And what am I accused of now?” he asks, sounding amused. He gets comfortable on the ground between Lincoln and Miller, nodding briefly at Lincoln before turning to the group.

“Being our fearless leader,” Monroe informs him, trying to affect a sitting bow, but she just ends up sort of toppling into him.

“You're all drunk,” Bellamy says, still amused, “aren't you?”

“We're barely tipsy,” Harper protests, and Monty nudges one of the bottles into his leg.

“You should join us,” he says. “Miller's telling us a story.”

“In which you're our fearless leader,” Lincoln adds, because he doesn't feel like this was adequately explained.

Bellamy smiles. It's at all of them, really, but Lincoln's head is just muddled enough to imagine that its force is directed at him.

“Just me?” he asks. “That doesn't seem very realistic.”

“Raven's in charge too,” Miller says, like this should be obvious, but then he says, “and Lincoln,” in what sounds like the same tone. Lincoln's head must be more muddled than he presumed.

He finishes what remains of his cup and sets it down on the ground, steady, as Miller continues his story. Lincoln is listening, he is, but the thread of it all keeps escaping him, just a little too far out of his grip. He shakes his head as if to dispel the mud, the dirt, but his head is still thick with it. It gets worse, not better, even though he has not refilled his cup, and there's something else underneath it now, a sharp, desperate, familiar need.

Lincoln takes a moment to collect himself, then gets quietly to his feet, excusing himself from the group as he leaves. He takes careful, painstaking steps until he's clear of the campfire, and then he lets himself stagger to a stop behind the grain store.

The area is mercifully empty, and Lincoln leans his head back, closes his eyes, forces himself to take long, steady breaths. It's the poison, of course, that the Mountain Men put in his body to make it their Cerberus. The pull isn’t as strong as it once was, and Lincoln knows it will get even weaker, but his head is muddy and his heart is heavy; he doesn’t believe it.

It’s fine. Ge smak daun, gyon op nodotaim. It’ll be fine.

Footsteps. Lincoln opens his eyes. Bellamy stops in front of him, concern clear on his face.

“Hey,” Bellamy says, low, “you okay?”

Lincoln breathes. “The Mountain,” he says. “I- I'm so sorry.”

And then he's bent double, retching into the dirt. He feels torn apart and bitterly alone for just a moment, and then Bellamy's hand is on his back, massaging in gentle circles, and Lincoln just feels torn apart. He breathes heavy for a few minutes until he can trust that his body is done, and then he straightens up. Or tries to, at least. He sways very precariously and Bellamy grabs his waist and hauls him up. Lincoln leans into it, accepting the help, and then carefully stands away.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, because Bellamy probably missed that in amongst all the throwing up.

Bellamy makes a face. "Lincoln, no," he says, and it looks like he's going to say something else, but he just makes a frustrated noise, another pained face. "Come on."

He holds out an arm to Lincoln, this time just offering, and Lincoln takes it, mostly because he still feels unsteady on his feet and accepting help is the better option. By the time they get back to his hut, Lincoln does feel better, but Bellamy still stays, turning away while Lincoln undresses, but still standing close.

Lincoln is almost asleep when Bellamy says, "I'm sorry too."

Lincoln opens his eyes. He was lost in the pre-sleep where everything is fuzzy and a little unreal, but he assumed Bellamy would have left by now.

"Not that you need to be sorry for what happened in the Mountain," he continues, "Jesus, Lincoln, that's- and I know sorry isn't enough for what we've done to you. For what I've done. But I am."

Fuzzy. Very unreal. Lincoln says, "Okay," and, "I forgive you," and hears a soft noise. It sounds like it comes from Bellamy, but Lincoln is too far away to properly tell.

In the morning, there's a knock at the hut door, and when Lincoln drags himself up to answer it, Monty is standing there, looking far less worse for wear than Lincoln feels. Official village gossip has it that he has a more potent hangover cure than the one he makes available to the rest of them. Usually, Lincoln dismisses such rumours. Usually, Lincoln is feeling more charitable.

“Miller's not here,” he says, and Monty says, “Oh, I know, he's at my place.”

"Oh," Lincoln says. Not at the admission that Miller spent the night in Monty's hut, which is a regular occurrence, but at the implication that Monty is here for Lincoln. Monty tries to say something, stops, tries again, then gives his head a shake.

“Bellamy says I need to talk to you,” Monty begins, “about, like, involuntary addiction and diminished responsibility and stuff? I'm not exactly sure.”

Lincoln raises his eyebrows. Monty shrugs.

“He got philosophical like he does, you know, and I sort of tuned out and stared at his eyelashes,” he admits, and Lincoln puts his aching head down and laughs.

*

The next time emmisaries from Trikru come to the village for the monthly trade arrangement, Indra is with them. Lincoln, nebulously responsible for overseeing any Grounder-Skaikru interactions, gives a start. Bellamy, who is actually in charge, steps forward to extend a cordial hand to her.

"Indra," he says, nodding to her. "This isn't usually your domain. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Indra sweeps a curt look around the village. "The commander wanted to check in."

Bellamy's voice cools, but his smile does not. "Is there something amiss?"

Indra's voice is just as cool. "That's what I am here to check. Can you give me a tour?"

"Bellamy is needed here," Lincoln says quickly, before Bellamy can speak. "Come with me."

Indra raises an eyebrow, but doesn't protest, just extends her arm as if beckoning him to lead the way. Bellamy flicks a look at Lincoln, concern evident in his eyes, and Lincoln doesn't have time to wonder at the fact that he can recognise what that looks like on Bellamy. It's hardly anything remarkable, anyway; Bellamy wears his entire heart on his face.

Lincoln nods at him, brief, reassuring, and Bellamy's gaze lingers on him a moment before he nods back.

Indra doesn't say a word to Lincoln as they set off, but Lincoln knows what she will want to see, and he understands what her silence means. He may not be able to read her as well as he used to, but there are some things you never forget about very old friends.

He shows her around the vague outline of the village, pointing out the huts, Raven's workshop, the medical centre, the small but growing school, the grain store. He leads her around the crops, listing all the things Monty is growing, and notes her grudging approval. The berry patch is right on the edge, and Lincoln leaves it to the end, deliberately not pointing it out as they approach.

Indra stops still.

"This was not Skaikru," she says. It's not derisive, just matter of fact.

Lincoln nods. He knows she is thinking of Anya on her hands and knees in the rich mulch of the earth. His chest aches.

In Trikadsleng, he says, "I think of her always." Indra turns to look at him, not bothering to hide the rawness on her face. That's not her way. “As often as I think of you all.”

Indra still looks like an open wound. “You haven’t visited,” she says.

“I didn’t think I was welcome,” Lincoln says.

"You were probably right," Indra says, but her smile is wry, not cruel. "I was so angry at you."

"Are you not still?" Lincoln says, and Indra shrugs.

"Sometimes," she says. "Often. But that doesn't mean I don't miss you."

She says it so simply Lincoln feels like his chest might burst. “I'll visit,” he says. “I'll- Indra.”

He steps forward, holds out his arms, closes his eyes when Indra steps into them.

They walk back to the trading post, close and in step with one another, but as they pass the medical centre, Octavia ducks out and sees them.

“Indra!” she says, delighted, and rushes to hug her. Indra beams and hugs her back. “What are you doing here?”

“Just visiting,” Indra says.

Octavia flicks a look at Lincoln, and Lincoln smiles reassuringly at her. Octavia breaks out into a grin. “Awesome,” she says, “because I have so much to show you. You're not leaving already, are you?”

“Tell the others I'll join them later,” Indra says, touching Lincoln's arm, and Lincoln nods.

The emissaries are still there when Lincoln returns to the trading post, negotiating over something or other with Bellamy. There's a reason he's the one in charge of this; Bellamy is good with words, and people, and he is very, very good at negotiating. Lincoln trusts him with this. He didn't, always, but Bellamy proved him wrong, and keeps proving him wrong.

“I understand it's in short supply,” Bellamy is saying as Lincoln approaches. “I just need a- Lincoln!”

Lincoln flashes a friendly smile around the group. “Is everything okay here?”

“Fine,” Bellamy says. “We're all done here.”

They fill out the book for the month's trades, and Lincoln makes brief conversation with the emissaries about current events in Trikru, watching Bellamy out of the corner of his eye. He passes on Indra's message and they nod before heading back to their horses.

“You took your time,” Bellamy says, when they've gone. “Where's Indra?”

Lincoln chooses not to press the issue. He trusts Bellamy, after all.

“She and Octavia are catching up,” he says, and something on his face must give him away, because Bellamy smiles.

“Things went well, then?”

“She'll give us a positive report,” Lincoln says, and Bellamy rolls his eyes.

“That's not what I meant,” he says, “but that's good to know.”

Lincoln looks away, his chest flaring warm all over again. “I'm going to visit,” he says.

“That's good,” Bellamy says, “that's really good,” and promptly launches into a brief treatise on the importance of family that Lincoln has heard some variation of at least three times before. It's passionate and heartfelt and more than a little rambly, and Lincoln finds his gaze drifting to Bellamy's eyelashes.

*

Lincoln wakes from monstrous dreams to find Miller's hands rough on his shoulders, shaking him. For a moment, Lincoln sees a dark room, debilitating pain, but then it's just Miller's face, soft and concerned.

"You were having a nightmare," Miller says, while Lincoln controls his breaths. He's sitting on the edge of his cot, hands wrung together in his lap, face still soft. "Seemed pretty fucking awful."

Lincoln's dream images are already fading, but he's still gripped by phantom terror, dread sunk deep in his bones. He nods. "Did I wake you?"

Miller shrugs. "Couldn't sleep anyway. Don't worry about it."

Lincoln nods. He doesn't think he can return to sleep, nor does he particularly want to. He gets up, goes to the sink, splashes water over his face, stands with his eyes closed and his hands braced on the wall for just a moment.

"Was it the Mountain?"

Lincoln's eyes open.

"Yes," he says, after a moment. When he turns, the softness is gone from Miller's face. Lincoln doesn't think he's ever seen it this blank.

"I have nightmares about it too. Not that it's the same," Miller says quickly, "but, you know."

Lincoln nods. He thinks he does know. “Thank you,” he says. “For waking me.”

“Any time,” Miller says, and yawns widely. “I'm just gonna- back to sleep.”

Lincoln nods. “Good night, Miller,” he says, and Miller smiles, says, “Good night.”

It’s quiet outside, as ever. There’s a light on in Raven’s workshop, and Lincoln turns towards it half unconsciously. He hears voices as he approaches, too quiet to make out words, and then there’s a burst of laughter, distinctly Raven. Lincoln smiles, and pushes open the door.

Bellamy’s at a workbench, sleeves rolled up and grease stains on his forearms. Lincoln glances away. His gaze meets Raven’s, who’s pulled herself up to sit beside Bellamy,

“Hey Lincoln,” she says, and Bellamy’s head snaps up.

“I was just helping Raven,” he says quickly, and Lincoln raises his eyebrows. He wouldn't have thought otherwise – Bellamy and Raven spend so much time in each others' company, whatever the time of day – but Bellamy wears his entire heart on his face, and his heart looks guilty.

“Sure,” Raven says, plainly amused. To Lincoln, she says, “You here to help too?” The emphasis she places on the word help dispels precisely none of Lincoln's suspicions.

He nods cautiously. “I thought I could join the insomniac club.”

Raven grins. “We're thinking about getting jackets,” she says. “Leather ones.”

Bellamy scowls, and Raven’s grin broadens, and Lincoln has no idea what’s going on. He smiles.

“What is it you’re working on?” he asks, and Raven says, “Fixing up the generator,” at the same time Bellamy says, “The walkie-talkies.”

Lincoln raises his eyebrows again.

“The generator,” Bellamy says.

“The generator,” Raven confirms, and slips down onto the ground one foot at a time. “Here, I was gonna ask you to take a look at it anyway.”

She leads him over to a workbench on the other side of the room, facing away from Bellamy. It doesn’t escape Lincoln’s notice that he can’t see what Bellamy is working on from here. Lincoln doesn’t mind. Bellamy is welcome to his secrets, if he must. Lincoln shakes Bellamy’s face from his mind and focuses on Raven explaining the problem with the generator.

*

Lincoln has nothing to do today. It doesn't happen often; in a village as small as theirs, there is always something to do, always someone who could use some help. But the class he was supposed to be teaching had to be rescheduled because Monty's taking half the other students out on some kind of scavenging trip, which he firmly insisted Lincoln was not needed for. He went to the medical centre to offer his services, but it was empty, so Octavia ushered him out as she closed up behind them.

At a loss for anything else to do, Lincoln goes to the stables.

Once again, it is not empty when Lincoln pushes open the door. There's a dark head at Helios's pen, brushing out his hair, which falls long and loose alongside a-

“Is that a saddle?” Lincoln asks, and Bellamy's head whips around.

“Uh,” he says, “surprise?”

Lincoln steps closer, admiring the handiwork, the obvious time and effort put in. “This is what you've been so secretive about,” he says, a little incredulous, and Bellamy shrugs.

“You do so much,” he says earnestly, “for all of us. I wanted to do something for you. Also, uh.” He smiles, hesitant but warm. “I thought you could teach me to ride. Unless you had other plans.”

“I don't, as it happens,” Lincoln says, feeling a smile grow on his own face. “I don't suppose you would have anything to do with that.”

“Not at all,” Bellamy says, now smiling so wide his eyes are crinkled and bright. Lincoln steps forward, touches a hand to Bellamy's waist, and kisses him. It's a gentle kiss, a hesitant kiss, but Bellamy returns it, grasping at Lincoln's arm. “Well,” he amends, a little breathless, “maybe just a little bit. But it was Raven's idea.”

“Then I shall thank Raven,” Lincoln says. “Now let's ride.”


End file.
